Unwilling
by IvyGreensward
Summary: The sequence of seeing Hermione tumble down the stairs would haunt him for the rest of his years.  He could replay the event in his mind frame by frame, as with a movie. He stopped short of touching her, sure that she'd already grown cold.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters or places in the World of Harry Potter nor do I make money from this story.

_'Morning.'_ She thought, with resignation. Another day had begun and the prospect of enduring another endless day like so many before turned her stomach. She fought not to open her eyes, a childish wish that she might find herself at home or with the man she loved, if only she could wish hard enough. Knowing this to be beyond even her startling magical talents she slowly peeled her eyes open and glanced around the richly appointed room, taking great care not to look at Him.

In the scant moments before He would begin to stir she cast her glance around the room trying, as she was wont to do, to find something good about her situation. Even in the strange low light of false dawn, which turns even the brightest of colors into various shades of gray and occasionally casts deep green shadows upon the carpet, the room was undeniably beautiful. This was purely aesthetic she reflected, after all is not a glided cage still a cage?

He began to stir and she froze instinctively, not wanting to catch the blame for having woken Him before dawn. That was a lesson she'd been made to learn all too well during the last two years and one she would try her utmost never to make again. Raising her hand she could still feel the scar on her scalp; running her fingers over it gingerly as though it might still hurt nearly a year later.

His wrath had been terrible, but more disturbing was the odd tenderness that overtook His handsome features when the violence of the attack had made itself clear. He was almost kind to her whilst she healed and made no move to use her for a space afterward. There was a troubling understanding in his eyes as he ministered her care for those weeks that had shocked her to the core.

She was not at all accustomed to being so incredibly wrong about another person, but the expression in his eyes said clearer than words that he knew what it meant to be hurt, and badly so. During those fateful days as she fell in and out of consciousness she also came to better understand the boy turned man with whom she had shared a deep mutual animosity and loathing. Even now months later when He was at his most sadistic she could no longer hate him, those eyes the color of a winter gray sky held a note of attrition, of...sympathy.

That is not to say that she was spared the worst of His temper, far from it. He had taken it upon himself to break her spirit, tame her and put her talents to use toward his own ends. He had taken a dislike to getting his hands, and robes, dirty and so left the worst of her physical "coercion" to others. He also displayed a politician's grasp of language.

One day about a month gone she'd heard Him discussing her progress with one of his house guests. He could not bring himself to say that he tortured her, no he was trying to change her mind, nothing more. She also found it odd that he refused to use her name when he spoke of her, wouldn't he want to tell the world of his triumph over an arch rival who was known to be a talented witch? Maybe she was wrong again?

He seemed to have drifted back to sleep, she sighed softly and pressed herself off of the satin sheets slowly, so as not to disturb him again. She padded across the ancient rug, handcrafted by master Indian wizards some hundred years ago, it was undeniable in its quality; the silken fibers caressing her bare feet as she took a gentle turn around the bed to grab her gossamer dressing gown, (It had been enchanted to provide more warmth than the fabric suggested.) designed to satisfy his own voyeuristic tendencies. Though once again the enchantment seemed a strangely magnanimous gesture on the part of one who technically owned her and who had spent many a year making her as uncomfortable as possible.

At the beginning of her...incarceration the thought of His hands on her revolted her, every cell it seemed screamed out for death, drove her to the very edge of reason, but in the years since He'd proven to be as compassionate as was possible, given her lack of choice in the...relationship. Draco Malfoy was many things, but a fate worse than death he was not. Most often she felt nothing toward him, not disgust or even anger. It was far easier to live with him when she allowed the numbness to sink into her mind, body and her very soul. She was possessed of an iron will during daylight hours, but her dreams were a different matter.

Some people claim that you can control your dreams, but that is a lie parents tell their children to banish imaginary boogeymen back into the closet to vanish in daylight. Hermione Granger was not a child anymore, not in any respect. She feared to close her eyes for the knowledge that her dreams would hold a very different life, the way her life should be:_ Ron at her side she'd glance down and see her belly swollen with the promise of new life. She could feel that little life kicking against her ribs merrily as if to say, "I'm here Mommy."_

The dream from which she'd awoken moments earlier had been particularly painful and was proving particularly to shake: _She lay on a table in the house of a midwife who had placed a_  
_curious device to her belly and she had heard it, heard the beating of that little heart. Ron's expression was one of elation, he grasped her hand and asked, "Do you hear that?" His voice a slight whisper muffled further by the tears in his eyes. She smiled at him, secure in the knowledge that Ron was going to be a great father...._

She physically shook her head, Ron was dead and nothing could bring him back to her. She decided that a bit of work might bring her back to reality faster so she knelt down to lay a fire in  
the cold hearth. She was not allowed the liberty of unsupervised use of her wand, so she made no attempt to light it once the logs were arranged. Instead she crossed the room and silently opened the door to the adjoining sitting room and perched herself in one of the window boxes and pressed back the drapes.

Her hand lingered a moment on the lush green velvet, it was a small comfort to feel it soft beneath her clenched alabaster fingers, but at the very least it was real. Reality was all she had to cling to and she reflected: as long as there is life, there is hope. Though it was a small hope indeed and she did not allow it to linger. She cast her glance from the draperies and out into the grounds of the manor.

The rain fell in curtains, a metaphor for the tears she could not cry for her lost life. It was later than she'd thought when first she'd awoken, this was all to the good as it meant her day would be a bit shorter and as such slightly more bearable. Her best days were when Draco was ill, she needed only to tend to him when requested, the rest of her time could be spent reading, her favorite escape though she'd never let it be known. Hermione's skin began to crawl with the need for a bath, her fastidious nature always seemed to remind her of the mundane things she'd taken for granted. She wished Draco would allow her to walk to the end of the hall unsupervised for a bath. He acted like she was free to roam the Wizarding world and not be marked for death as a mudblood! The Dark Lord did not permit such unclean specimens to be without a proper master and only then if they'd shown exceptional power. So in a way Draco had saved her, though by doing so had condemned her to a life of servitude and torture.

There was a knock at the door which startled her out of all proportion to its significance, she gathered the robe about her and turned the knob with her eyes properly downcast, lest she lock  
eyes with one of her 'betters.' It was merely one of the free servants payed to tend to the needs of what remained of the House of Malfoy. It took a small army of humans to do the work of one house elf, and they had been unsuccessful in attempts at enticing another to their service. This spoke volumes to the horrors that plagued the family and the truly frightening skeletons which the Malfoy's were hiding in the proverbial closet.

The elderly wizard had an air about him which spoke of dignity and also of condescension to those he deemed below his meager station, and Hermione was certainly one such unfortunate. He levitated a highly polished silver tray bearing a matched teapot and the finest china that gold could buy. On the plate was one of Draco's favorite breakfasts, griffin eggs on toast points. It was an extravagance that seemed wasteful to Hermione's sensibilities, but she had not been raised in a home with such lavish and frivolous attitudes.

The wizard was staring at her and for a long moment she could not begin to imagine why, then she realized, the robe. The warmth often caused her to forget that it was not as visually substantial as she might have hoped for in general company, but she supposed that it was just another part of the design, another humiliation. She blushed a deep scarlet in spite of her best effort and grasped the tray doing her best to ignore the awkward situation in which she'd found herself. She crossed the room in silence and placed the laden sliver tray upon the table, blackened with usage and age and polished to a high shine to please the Mistress of the Manor. She turned back to the door hoping that the servant would have seized the opportunity to have left when some measure of modesty might be maintained.

It seemed that luck had abandoned her, instead of a closed door she found the man leering at her in a disquieting fashion. Her eyes widened in fear of what he might do next. He minutely shifted his feet and she braced herself for the full force of his weight. One of the enchantments that lay on her skin prevented her from running from physical attacks on her person by fully blooded witches or wizards. She clenched her eyes tight and waited in silence that seemed an eternity for the blow to fall, it did not come.

At length she opened her eyes to see the man writhing on the ground he appeared to be shrieking though no sound was escaping his throat; perhaps the very air had been stolen from his lungs, for now he clawed at his throat in abject panic. She was still frozen, half expecting to be blamed for the servant's bad behavior, a laughable notion had she been able to laugh, as she'd not even complete control of her own actions with such magics chaining her! Then just when she was certain that the man had been removed from all pain and punishment by the sweet kiss of Death he gasped, taking great gulps of air and pressing himself slowly up to his feet.

"No," whispered a cold voice edged in steel, "You will remain on your knees until I say otherwise." Draco clucked his tongue like some disappointed schoolmarm and with a voice like unto silk he continued, "Abner, of all those in my employ I expected better of you. Long years have you worked in this household and now I have seen a glimpse of what it is you desire most and I find it to be most curious." Draco edged around the man who stayed on his knees with head bent out of respect born of fear. Draco then raised his wand like a whip and considered it before striking downward with considerable force.

A word of admonishment punctuated each stroke, Draco's tone was polite and very mildly condescending as if this was just any other day and he was not doling out punishment. "You." Crack! "Will." Crack! "Not." Crack! "Lay." Crack! "Hands." Crack! "On." Crack! "What." Crack! "Is." Crack! "Mine" Crack! The man stayed on his knees by some miracle, though he'd been whimpering piteously by the time the third blow had fallen.

Hermione jumped slightly with each lash, feeling fortunate that it was not she who was feeling the sting of the whipping as she had so often before, but also daring not to move, lest Draco feel that the blame was to be spread equally amongst the two of them. She remained, where she'd fallen to her knees and took great care not to breath too loudly.

Draco's voice echoed into the quiet of the room, "Get out of my sight you covetous wretch." Abner, it seemed needed no further warning and was gone before Hermione could summon the strength of will to raise her head. She clasped her hands together to keep him from noticing the shaking, but the rest of her body betrayed it to the tall wizard who stood above her.

He raised her to standing by laying a soft hand under her chin and pulling her upward gently. She tensed, gentleness form Draco usually presaged something horribly painful. She put all of the effort she could muster into not flinching, there was no need to give him any ideas. He pushed the robe from her ivory shoulders and the luxuriant material pooled on the ancient wooden floor round her equally pale legs. He carefully and throughly inspected her and having found no injuries he turned to the table where his breakfast lay nearly forgotten.

He took a carelessly graceful seat, his blond hair a shimmering curtain of loveliness in the early morning light and with a flick of his wand he opened the door and said dismissively, " I expect you'll be wanting a bath." She gathered the robe up in her arms and fled to the bath chamber without a backward glance.

Hermione raced down the hall on tip toe, so as not to disturb the remainder of the household. She closed the door softly behind her, her heart still thumping painfully against her rib-cage she could scarcely believe her luck. It might not have been advisable to dwell on the fact that she'd not only escaped punishment, but also somehow managed the privilege of bathing in private.

The chamber was positively cavernous and her bare feet created an echo which was uncomfortably loud to her ears. It was rather difficult to move surreptitiously, so she decided to abandon the notion altogether. The window faced full East and the dim light of the morning sun, muted by the grayness of the clouds, made the fixtures which were white as bone, glow radiantly. When, at length, her eyes adjusted Hermione beheld the splendor of the decor. Once again it could not be said that Draco's mother had failed in any aspect of style or taste; the clean white lines of the basin and sink were complimented to perfection by towels and linens that on first glance appeared to be spun out of jet, their delicate sheen toning down the stark nature of her first impression and leaving her with the impression of modern elegance.

She peeled her feet from the floor, how long she'd stood pondering the decor she could not have said, and crossed to the basin which began filling as she approached. She knew without testing it that it was the exact temperature that she wanted, ah the marvels of a fully magical Estate! Hermione luxuriated in the feeling of the supple jet rug between her toes and before she could have imagined it, the tub was filled with hot water and bubbles that were scented with a light soothing perfume. In fact the speed with which the basin had filled had been so startling that she'd not afforded herself time to brush her hair.

She snatched the sliver brush from the shelf on which it lay forlorn and turned to face her reflection in the mirror that served as the northern wall for the room, it was startlingly clear to her at that point that vanity was a curse of the Malfoy line. Her tresses had never been so neglected and it was with no small amount of cursing and hissing, both under her breath, that she began to carefully untangle the mats that had accumulated over the week since last she'd been allowed to wash or tend to her waist-length hair. Hermione supposed that it was another act of subjugation to prevent her from caring for her appearance as she'd have liked to, it was a petty thing. Petty things were not of any great consequence, she would remind herself, and so she chose simply to ignore his attempt at undermining her fragile ego. Her life was more important than her pride.

The mirror was fogged with the steam of her bath and she swept her hand at it in order that she might see what a mess time and neglect had made of her once delicate features. The moisture in the air was so great that she could not get an accurate picture of what she might look like, she smirked at the obscured reflection; it no longer mattered what she looked like and following that line of thought it might never matter again.

She was suddenly cold, a bone deep cold that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room and more to do with the notion, the painful realization that she might be permanently  
disenfranchised. Hermione abandoned that thought altogether and slipped into the bath, whose fragrant bubbles were already beginning to dissipate. The water glided over her skin like a  
silken kiss, a caress that would never, could never be unwelcome. It was like a hug from a lifelong friend and was more comfort than she'd have allowed herself had she been supervised as was the norm.

Suddenly Hermione was crying, a luxury that she could ill afford given her present state, she raised a wet hand to wipe away the traces of tears and caught the scent of Draco still on her skin. She picked up the soap, heavily scented with jasmine, and began to violently scour every last trace of him from her skin which turned bright red under her hands. When she discovered that the smell was also intertwined in every curl on her head. Disgusted, she plunged herself into the basin as deeply as she could go and prayed for the strength to take one deep breath of the scalding water. She straightened her legs and was momentarily trapped beneath the weight of her hair.

She ran her fingers over her face beneath her damp tresses and parted them with a sigh, there had not been a time in the past year and a half that she'd so consistently failed to master her emotions. 'This,' she thought, 'does not bode well for my well-being.' She reached for the new bottle of shampoo that sat next to the basin. Upon picking it up it was not one she'd seen in this bathroom before, though it did look strangely familiar to her. The bottle slipped through her wet fingers and water splashed back at her with unnatural force, hitting her straight in the face. "Bollocks!" Throwing her hands down she splashed more water from the basin to pool upon the cold marble.

'One more thing for me to clean up!' she seethed in silence. Lady Luck has at times a most peculiar sense of humor, or perhaps it was just the imp of the perverse plaguing Hermione that day. Her fingers dredged the bottom of the basin and found the bottle where it had come to rest at the far end near the drain where the porcelain dipped to better drain the water. By some miracle the cap remained tightly snapped and the contents were undamaged by the impromptu swim they'd taken. With fingers that were now grasping far more tightly than was strictly necessary she gave the bottle a squeeze, set it down and began to lather before the full fragrance hit her nose, and hit her it did...

_Hermione stood in the small bathing room at the Burrow combing through her damp hair and singing under her breath, so lost was she in her reverie that she failed to notice when the door opened and a visitor stepped into the room and chuckled softly to himself at what he beheld._

_Her eyes were closed and she was enjoying the smell of the shampoo that Ginny had lent her and the relative privacy of the room, it was frequently the only place that one might be alone in the Weasley household. Finally she brushed her hair back from her face and was astonished to see Ron standing not three feet from her with an unidentifiable expression painted on his handsome face. She flushed at his chuckle and in trying to be cautious and casual she dropped her brush to the floor; her eyes followed and she was determined not to look him in the face again, lest she draw another laugh from him._

_Ron did not realize that he had embarrassed her and crossed the room in two great strides and bent to pick up the fallen brush. At the same moment Hermione knelt to retrieve the brush she'd dropped, further mortified by her own clumsiness. Suddenly she was struck with..something on her head. "Bloody Hell!" Ron said echoing her very thought as he straightened rubbing his head with one hand and her hairbrush in the other. In spite of herself, Hermione began to laugh, it was oddly appropriate for the situation and Ron joined her before asking, "What is so funny Hermione?"_

_She shook her head and smiled at him, "My mum told me once that in every great relationship there will be a moment where the two of you bend over to pick something up and end up hitting your heads together. When it happened for her and my dad was the first time she realized she loved him..." she finished in a whisper. She looked up into his face breathlessly, uncomfortable with the obvious thought that came unbidden into her mind._

_Hermione watched as something passed through Ron's eyes and her reached up to touch her cheek, she both longed for and feared to close the distance between their lips. Ron suffered from no such lack of motivation and bent to her upturned face, his heart beating frantically, he could feel her breath on his lips. Hermione closed her eyes and the door flew open they jumped back from each other as if they'd been momentarily electrocuted. A female voice came into the room ahead of its owner, "Hermione I had a few questions about the..." Ginny stopped short and gaped at the sight before her eyes._

The memory faded and Hermione scrubbed at her scalp ruthlessly trying to remove any trace of Ron from her mind, as if it would be possible to do so with force of cleansing. She rinsed her hair doing her best not to linger over the smell of the shampoo, realizing this to be a fruitless plan she instead hurried herself just to escape the ghost of Ron who lingered in the faint traces of vapor and suds from the shampoo. She toweled herself so vigorously that her skin was red and irritated, not an easy task given the exceptionally soft nature of the towels at her disposal.

Hermione forced herself to the task of cleaning the enormous room with a dedication which might only be attributed to desperation; even given her desire to finish and be away from this room she did not allow her haste to affect the quality of her work. She tried to focus instead on the fact that Draco made her clean by hand. She thought that this too was meant to insult and degrade her as a witch, but she wondered if he could ever understand that it was not nearly so much a hardship to her as it might be to him, as she'd grown up doing chores which were not all that dissimilar. It is often the contention of the gently born that their fears or dislikes are the only things worth despising or fearing, that their experiences were the only ones of any value.

When the room positively gleamed in the dim stormy light which struggled through the window on the Eastern wall of the chamber, Hermione finally decided that her task was done. She  
gathered the cleaning supplies and stowed them neatly under the sink and prepared to dress in the robes that had appeared on the plush seat in front of the vanity next to the sink. The fabric was far too fine for everyday wear, surely there was some mistake. She took a moment to weigh the options before her: did she wear the robes which were far too fine and incur the wrath of their rightful owner or did she refuse them and risk Draco's anger? It seemed that there was no way to win. After a moment she decided that it would be the lesser risk to dare his anger, lately he was as likely to react as not, but no other member of the household was likely to be as inattentive.

She gathered the robes delicately, in order that she'd not wrinkle them and walked carefully down the long hall to the suite she'd left earlier. It felt odd to be alone in the hallway, or really anywhere where she was not under lock and key (or more accurately in this case, lock and wand); she savored the walk to the end of the hall not knowing when she might again have the opportunity to be without scrutiny. She had always imagined this moment would be accompanied by some level of relief, but the only thing she could feel was a weariness that dragged at her feet as if she were trudging through ankle-deep mud.

She trudged down the hall with hunched shoulders, back to the inevitable sting of her reality. She stepped softly into the receiving room, though she needn't have bothered. Draco was absorbed deeply in some bit of business a frown of concentration on his face and his brow furrowed with wrinkles that his chiseled masculine features would not for some years to come. Setting about to her chores for the day she studied his face surreptitiously, it seemed that he was under some great stress as of late and it could best be seen in his eyes that had lost the sparkle of youth and vitality that they'd held during his tenure at Hogwarts. It was a testament to the level of his distraction that he'd not caught Hermione's subtle glances, though she was much on his mind and the very subject which had given him pause.

____________________________________________________________________________

Draco dismissed Hermione to bathe counting on surprise to curtail any possible ill-conceived, or more likely in her case well-conceived, escape plans. She left without so much as a backward glance and he let out a breath that he had not known he was holding. This was not at all what he'd anticipated when he'd hatched this plan, she should have made his life easier! He bit idly into his breakfast and poured himself a cuppa and flicked his hair over his shoulder so that he could better see out the window. The weather matched his mood so closely that it could have been spun from his very thoughts, black clouds roiled outside as well as inside his mind.

Though the hour was later than he generally liked to rise he was disinclined to raise any complaints, he was too despondent to hear his own gripes. A feat, indeed, for someone who was widely known to greatly enjoy the sound of his own voice. When it seemed that his mood could sink no lower, his melancholia was interrupted by a knock at the door.

He bid them entrance and took the post from yet another silver tray then dismissed the servant and cracked the wax seal on the first of three letters regarding his "Magical Investment" as Hermione had been deemed by one of Draco's more couth associates. It was not widely known that he had what amounted to a slave gifted with exceptional powers, but to those few who were privy to such information it seemed that Draco had scored the ultimate coup.

On a near daily basis he received offers, which had become increasingly lucrative, for her person. He would not entertain them, nor would he reveal to those who knew what he had who she was...Hermione Granger had died in the Battle of Hogwarts and no one ever need think differently! It was a small miracle in itself that they'd survived that battle, but he could not bring himself ruin by giving her to anyone else, not for any price.

He quickly scanned the remaining letters, only to confirm the nature of their author's inquiry, before throwing them into the cold grate and lighting it with flick of his wand and a thought. The force of his thought caused the fire to flare higher than he expected, it was not at all like him to let anything get the better of his abilities, the flare up ended as abruptly as it had begun and he did his best to shake off the slight panic that it arose in him.

He had finished the last of his correspondence for the day and began tending to the bills for the household by the time Hermione returned from her bath. The scent of the shampoo clung to her and played strangely with his mind. Hermione sprawled naked upon black satin sheets with a knowing smile flashed through his thoughts, he clenched his jaw and did his level best to ignore the smell and the vision that it seemed was painted on the back of his eyelids. He clenched the quill in his hand and it snapped under the fury of his grip, sending droplets of ink splattering across the clean sheets of parchment that lay neglected on the table. He trembled with the effort to ignore the scent of her hair and skin, with the desperate attempt to forget the color of her eyes.

Storm clouds crossed through his eyes and before he could stop himself, in fact before he had even the slightest notion he'd moved an inch he'd closed the distance to where she stood tidying (And he noted oddly detached, not wearing the robes he'd had made for her). She did not cower as the force of his anger broke over her; her will was as strong as it had ever been.

He grabbed her left arm with bruising force and pressed the frock into the other with an order for her to turn and change into them posthaste. She obeyed keeping the disgust from her face with discipline of iron; tossing her hair over her shoulder to catch him in the face was her only concession to the seething anger bubbling near the surface.

He grabbed a hank of her hair where it hit his face and pulled it harshly to his nose, eliciting a small sound of protest from her. He wound the lock of hair more tightly and she groaned in response. He smiled at her pain and the flowery scent of the shampoo and spun her fiercely to face him, her half buttoned robes fell down around her ankles. All traces of defiance were gone, leaving fear naked in her magnificent eyes.

He pulled her hair again and she made no noise and no movement, paralyzed by the threat in his posture. He kissed her roughly and was certain that she felt no pleasure from it only kissing him back when it became clear that he'd bloody her lips against her teeth if she did not yield and open to him. He loosened his grip on her hair and let her fall to the floor, a puddle of flesh, a perfect compliment to her new robes. He laughed derisively and with a flourish left her to her cell. Though he did enjoy them, there was far too much business to attend to for playing such games all day.


	2. Chapter 2

Draco carefully closed the door behind him, making certain to lock it magically, then with a shake of his head he pulled a tiny silver key from his pocket and turned it in the lock, hearing the bolt click he turned, having secured the door to her cell physically. It was a testament to Hermione's power as a witch and his own fear of her eventual retribution, eventual because he'd no doubt that she could not be held forever, that he resorted to magical as well as mundane methods to keep her away from the prying eyes of the world.

It was disquieting in the extreme for Draco to have to second guess himself in such a manner and he cursed the day he'd hatched this plot, having a witch of her caliber at his beck and call was designed to make his life easier. Nothing about his life was easy since he'd brought Her home and the business of the day would bring that into sharp relief, though Draco had no way of knowing just how difficult it would become.

It was more problematic than usual for Draco to remove his thoughts and worries from his face, though he'd been schooled to it from birth and had the ability polished during his service to the Dark Lord. He paused before the closed doors to the parlor and taking a deep breath wiped his face and mind clear of any thoughts not directly related to this meeting. It was supposed to be a happy occasion, he would not do well to drag his unpleasant life circumstances into the mix and sully the moment for his family. Having rid himself of his worries concerning Hermione, Draco found that his hands shook sightly as he reached for the brass handle to the door, he was actually excited and nervous for the first time in recent memory.

Draco opened both doors knowing that even the dim light from the window behind him would catch in his fair hair and that he'd look angelic; it was very much a Malfoy tradition to make as grand an entrance as possible. The pretty young witch who sat on the opposite side of the parlor smiled and drew her breath in at the sight of Draco framed in muted light. Her mother did the same, Draco noted with a self-satisfied smile that it seemed everyone else in the room took for his merely being polite.

His troubles pressed back into the recesses of his mind, Draco crossed the room in four swift, graceful strides nodding his morning salutations to his parents and dropping to one knee in front of the pretty witch who had smiled at him only scant moments before. Taking her hand in his he raised it gently to his lips and laid a soft, chaste kiss just above her knuckles; she shivered with delight at Draco's attentions, though she had the grace to blush when she met the amused eyes of her father.

The artlessly graceful young man at her feet suffered from no oh-so feminine afflictions of random dotty moments and raised himself up to his considerable height smoothing the fine fabric of his robes by way of habit. Throwing his silken hair over his shoulder, he drew a chair up next to the young lady and sat taking her hand in his once more. She beamed and their parents began speaking slightly more formally than usual, as if they had more than an inclination as to their future status toward one another. Draco seized the opportunity to have a brief whispered council with his lovely young lady.

"Astoria," he said, loving the way her name felt in his mouth; he raised his other hand and ran it along her delicately boned face and she leaned into the caress. He withdrew his hand and she positively beamed under his charming demeanor. "Have you any changes or additions to the plan?" he asked thoughtfully.

"No. Oh, Draco, I...I just can't wait. I love you," Astoria said her eyes sparkled with all the fire of a well-faceted sapphire, she bit her bottom lip and her palm began to sweat sightly in his, which responded in kind also growing damp with nerves. He gave her hand a soft squeeze and a conspiratorial wink before clearing his throat to gain the attention of the two couples who were discussing the latest shift in the Galleon to Gem exchange rate; both couples it seemed favored the new rate, as they'd much by way of precious stones to liquidate before the rate shifted back to its normal ratio.

"Mr. and Mrs. Greengrass, Mother, Father, I would ask that you please be seated." The couples obliged, with all the refinement that their wealth had bought for them the four sat opposite the young couple with identical expressions of polite curiosity painted on their faces.

Draco stood once more and brought Astoria to stand with him, though she let him speak for both of them, "As you know Astoria and I have been seeing each other for just over a year, we have reason to believe that you generally approve of our dating." Nods of assent greeted this statement, heartened Draco continued, surprised that his voice was not betraying the extent of his nervousness, "Mr. Greengrass I would like to ask your permission to marry your daughter."

Mr. Greengrass did not answer at once and Draco's pulse began to speed, his heart began to thump, nearly audible in the silence. No one moved or made even the smallest sound, the silence had gone on too long, they'd be denied! His heart sank, then pounded harder at the prospect of losing her. Just when the beating of his heart could surely be heard in the farthest reaches of the Manor, Astoria stepped forward defiantly seizing Draco's hand and as she opened her mouth her father cut off.

"Indeed. I'll not lie to young man, Mrs. Greengrass and I certainly expected this day to come and now that it has I can only say that we cannot," Draco flushed and Astoria burst into tears. Narcissa looked apoplectic, but held her tongue. Lucius leaned back onto the cushions and looked as though he was greatly enjoying the sport; there seemed to Draco a part of his father that was joyous whenever he failed. It took everyone, save Lucius, a full minute to realize that Mr. Greengrass was in fact overcome with a fit of coughing.

When his fit abated Mr. Greengrass sipped the water that appeared in front of him carefully and continued, the Malfoys' rapt with attention and Astoria still sobbing inconsolably, "As I was saying, we cannot think of a more suitable partner for our daughter."

Astoria was shocked to silence, by her father's apparent about-face concerning her nuptials. Draco looked relieved and flopped onto the couch next to her with none of his usual elegance. Narcissa looked vindicated; her Draco was better than good enough for the Greengrass family! Lucius, Draco noted sourly, looked crestfallen for an instant, then returned to his usual mask of polite indifference.

He did not dwell long over his father's moods, nor would it be wise to begin doing so now. With a downward twist of the right corner of his mouth, Draco filed his father's reaction in his mind, waiting for the day when he'd have the upper-hand in that epic battle. There were far more important things to attend to now that the engagement was official. Drawing Astoria aside he reached into his robes and drew out a tiny box, opening the lid she squealed delightedly.

She plucked the ring from the protection of the box and placed in on her finger, a three carat sapphire matching her eyes sparkled, reflecting her glow. Draco smiled, it was rare that things went so smoothly for him, in spite of his privileged upbringing he was far from accustomed to getting his way.

Lucius bowed out of the room with an excuse that no one had ears for as the Greengrass' and Narcissa were deeply involved in the discussion of plans for the wedding. He joined them, though he could not even tell the difference between the shades of purple which were being debated as the wedding colors. Lilac or orchid?

He looked down at the swatches of fabric and strained his eyes trying to make out the difference, finally he gave up and asked about the cake. He had assumed, incorrectly, that this would be a simple matter after all what choices were there to make? Chocolate or vanilla and the same options for the icing. When he gave a voice to this question his mother looked at him as though she'd never seen him before and Astoria laughed as if she thought it a joke. After a few more minutes, during which he kept his opinions quiet, Draco sensed that he was not needed, which was all to the good as far as he was concerned.

Hermione gathered herself and her new robes, standing slowly she slipped them over her alabaster shoulders. Draco's behavior had never done much to make her feel of value, but his most recent onslaught had left her with the certainty that she was nothing more than an object, a poppet to dress, entertain and clean up after him. There was no need to abuse her so, '_Not,_' she thought bitterly, '_that he needs a reason._' The lack of provocation for this attack was strange, though she was where he channeled his rage, she'd no doubt of that. She decided that it was best not to dwell on his motives, they hardly mattered and even had they it would do little to alter her status as chattel.

Hermione padded to the table in the far corner of the room where her list of daily chores was laid out. It was rather a short list today, which was just as well, as she did not feel herself. One positive that had come of serving a wizard with no non-magical relations was that she'd seen her load of chores lightened when she'd complained of not being allowed the use of her wand. She knew that Draco would never sully himself by doing his own sweeping and laundry by hand, so she felt safe in telling him that it took far more time than it actually had to complete what work she needed to satisfy him.

She set to the short list and finished all but her final task, which she left partially completed, lest he come in unannounced, as he was wont to do. That task was mending some robes that had clearly not been in style for near a century, it struck her as odd that they were even kept as the Malfoy's had always had a reputation for wanting the very best of what was new. There was little by way of sentimentality reflected in the eyes of any member of the household, another mystery that she might solve if she lived long enough, she sighed. Taking the basket of robes that needed yet to be mended to the window box, she pulled the book she'd selected from the middle of her sewing pile and began to read.

The book she'd selected was a tale of deathless romance, a Wizarding adaptation of Cinderella. Under normal circumstances Hermione would have found it to be cloying in its sweetness, saccharin in her mouth, but her current predicament elicited a strange pity for their commonalities. Hermione envied the heroine of the tale no small amount too, for where that damsel would be rescued, she had no such hope, no prince. She had only a tyrannical taskmaster who alternately ran hot and cold with rage and on the rarest of occasions showed some odd act of what could only be called kindness.

Draco positively flew through the halls, the plan had gone better than even he could have imagined; it would not be much longer that he'd have to endure the taunts, slights and abuses of his father. Someday he would be a father and he vowed never to be the loveless, sadistic bastard that was Lucius. In the last six or so months Draco had come to refer to his father as only Lucius. This critical distancing was a method by which he could begin to heal the lifetime of scars of mind and body. Soon with his marriage he would be able to have a house of his own, the prospect of having a physical barrier from Lucius was intoxicating as a bottle-full of fire whiskey.

Drunk on the anticipation of his freedom, Draco's senses were dulled to the point where he missed his father hiding behind the door in the kitchen. He was alerted to Lucius' presence by a calculated push of the swinging door; Draco fell flat onto his back, his arms and legs sprawled about like a life-sized marionette with strings cut. Draco was momentarily blinded by the pain in his nose, it was surely broken and blood rushed onto the carpet in the hallway, pooling crimson and hot against his scalp. Lucius' laughter was scornful and Draco tried not to let slip the chain holding his temper, which had grown to be a beast beyond even his father's reckoning. '_One day,_' Draco thought, '_One day_.'

Draco glared into the empty hallway, down which his father had disappeared, from his place on the floor, and rose cursing at his dizziness as he snatched a towel off of the nearest counter and placed it gingerly against his nose. He cast his gaze down at the rapidly congealing puddle of his life's blood and cocked his head slightly to the left as he considered the way that it changed from a red-orange to almost burgundy as the heat diminished.

He was startled, drawn from his reverie, by the sound of a gasp and a timid squeal. One of the maids had come into the kitchen, no doubt to begin the preparations for lunch. His eyes storm-gray narrowed dangerously as he beheld the look of terror on the face of the mousy young witch. "Are you going to stand about all day gawking at this mess or are you going to clean it up? If you feel it is beneath you, you have the option to find employment elsewhere."

The maid pulled out her wand and Draco heard her muttering a spell under her breath as he left the kitchen via the swinging door that had been the sight of his ambush only moments before; he took care to avoid stepping in the pool of blood. He did this not as an act of convenience for the lowly maid, but to avoid the possibility that he might ruin his shoes or his tailor-made pants. The very last thing that he needed on top of his family issues was to appear to be anything less than in total control of his destiny to the outside world. He had far too many secrets to let his veneer of perfection show even the smallest crack...

Hermione did not allow herself to dwell on the story she had just finished reading, it would do her no good to continue to think on a happy ending she'd have no hope of herself. She closed the book and returned it to the proper place on the shelf. Taking up the last of the robes to be mended, she set out to finish the task before he returned from his meeting. The subject of that meeting, admittedly, still gave her pause.

How was he to explain to his future wife the nature of her incarceration? Would he ever tell his dearest love that she was not alone in filling his bed? Hermione shook her head physically in an attempt to remove the thoughts that dogged her. The attempt was it seemed in vain, perhaps it was even worth his wrath to tell the wife herself when first the opportunity presented itself? No one deserved the treatment that Draco was giving to his beloved! (It seemed odd that she still retained the compassion to think of others in her present state of disenfranchisement.) The worst he could do would be to kill her, and she thought bitterly, '_That would be relief enough for me.'_

Pulling the old tattered robe into her lap, she expertly threaded the needle and began to patch the garment with surprising skill and quickness. Her fingers dexterously made repair of the supple material, it was a fabric so soft and fine that it could not be velvet as muggles knew it. The velveteen fabric was such a deep shade of green that the muted quality of the light, that initially she had chosen a black thread and had nearly completed the reconstruction before a stray sunbeam broke through the cloud cover and illuminated the thread's contrast to the body of the robe.

Hermione swore inwardly, cursing her ill-luck and took a more appropriate shade of thread from the basket that lay at her feet. Over the past two years she had become expert at hiding her true feelings, her countenance betrayed nothing of her frustration, her only concession to feeling at all was in the form of a tiny sigh that slipped past her supple lips.

Needle properly threaded, she began carefully to rip the black thread from the robe, lest she damage it further and create even more work for herself. She crossed the room as delicately as she could, in her situation it was best not to draw any unnecessary attention. As she cast the split and frayed scraps of thread into the wastebasket she had a moment of envy for the soft, graceful flight they took unto their end. Things would surely not be so easy for her when she came to the end of her usefulness to Draco.

As if he had been summoned by her thought, Draco entered the suite looking a bit more pale and angry than usual. He still had not cleaned the blood from his face and it was beginning to dry in his hair and it stuck out at an odd angle.

Hermione needed no prompting, she took a handkerchief from one of the drawers that was inlaid against the wall to save space and dipped it into the ever-present pitcher of water that sat on the darkly finished cherry table at the center of the room. Hermione was glad of the fact that she was not in charge of laundering the clothes, magic was a much more effective tool at removing blood stains than bleach and elbow grease.

Without a word or even a second glance Draco watched Hermione quickly grab a rag and dip in into the pitcher to clean him up. He was a bit curious as to why she did not look in askance at the nose that was surely broken or the blood that was sure to stain his fine white shirt. He winced as she began to carefully wipe the blood from his cheek and his ear. At his gasp she froze and cast her eyes downward, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..." He grabbed her hand and she tensed under his grasp. He tightened his grip minutely until she looked him in the eye.

His face was gentle and soft, he felt calm; far more calm than usual. His mood emboldened her, "I can fix that, if you would like me to," she said with the smallest trace of a smile. "May I have my wand?"

He retrieved her wand from the locked desk drawer in which he kept it and handed it to her with a slight upward twist of the corners of his mouth and said, "You know the rules." She took hold of the wand and nodded in capitulation. Had he imagined it, or did she grasp his hand a moment longer than was necessary for the exchange of the wand?

Before he had any time to contemplate the possible meanings of her gesture, he felt a sharp pain in his nose followed immediately by profound relief. She did not ask to clean the shirt, but had that deed done before he could ask for it or argue against it. She had learned to anticipate him very well indeed. He thought it odd that she did not continue to use magic to tidy the rest of him, but he was not like to complain when it resulted in such attentions from a woman.

The Dark Lord knows he had certainly never received much physical attention or affection from his mother, and the events of the afternoon had done much to underscore the way in which his father had treated him all of his life. Draco smirked, how strangely appropriate that he might find some kind of affection with an enemy in favor of his family.

Having successfully repaired Draco's nose and cleaned a shirt that might otherwise be ruined, and for which she might be blamed, Hermione set her wand on the table and began to clean the dried blood from his face and hair. She was not often allowed the use of her wand and did not want to press the good fortune she had found since his return to the room. Most of the time she tried to think of him as a monster, but when he would show up bloodied from a 'normal' conversation with his father it was impossible. Monsters didn't have such soft skin, anyhow...

He was startled when she spoke into the silence that had fallen, "I got most of it, but there is a good deal of it matted in your hair and I haven't enough water left to clean your hair properly." He handed her the wand she'd set down some minutes earlier and smiled softly at her. To his surprise and though he was loath to admit it, delight, she returned the smile. In an instant he was clean and dry and ready to continue with his day.

As he turned to go back to his business he was brought to a halt by tender words from the lips of the most unexpected source, "You don't deserve to be treated like that." He turned to see her gazing at the floor once more, her cheeks flush. He turned back to the door and said in a whisper she could barley make out, "No one does." He left the room determined not to think of what had just happened, it was too great to risk having compassionate feelings for her. He resolved to think of her as he had before: A powerful toy; his powerful toy.


	3. Chapter 3

In the twilit evening a figure carefully and respectfully approached the wrought iron gate to the cemetery, he pulled a wand from his pocket and silenced the creaking of the old and rusted hinges with a spell whispered under his breath. In his grief the ability to cast spells non-verbally had abandoned him. He wished more than anything that in all those long years at school of seeing her nearly everyday that he'd had the courage to tell her how he felt about her. He cursed his cowardice, now it was too late. The only woman he had ever loved, the only one he felt he ever could love, was dead and gone.

He slipped through the headstones as quietly and insubstantially as smoke, the last two years had seen Ron Weasley lose thirty pounds, he had become in his physicality as well as emotions a shadow of his former self. The loss of his brother coupled with the loss of his beloved had led many a person to express concern for his well-being. It seemed that everywhere he turned happy events, engagements, weddings, and births of children, were happening just to mock his loss again and again.

Ron had no real enjoyment even in holding his niece, Victoire, though he did manage to crack a smile as he held her for the first time. He did not intend to be rude, but the promise of renewal and rebirth held no comfort for him. He felt akin to an old man who had left no legacy; he had no hope, no love and no future as far as he Would allow himself to see.

He pushed the over-grown grass aside as he rested a pale hand on the handsome stone that marked the end of his sojourn into the rapidly darkening night. He illuminated his wand, "Lumos," and ran his fingers over the words he had come to know so well:

_Hermione Jean Granger_

_September 19, 1979-May 2, 1998_

_Brave of heart and sharp of mind, _

_A beloved friend we were lucky to find._

He mouthed the words as he had done dozens if not hundreds of times before; it brought him a strange kind of comfort in reciting those words to himself, though he could not begin to guess why. A single tear slipped from his azure eyes, it fell to the ground and where it impacted the dry soil the most beautiful flower that Ron had ever seen sprang to life in full bloom. A tiny ray of hope blossomed in his mind, but was soon rent to pieces by something less pleasant and far more troubling.

The thought that came to his mind as he beheld the flower was one that had come to nag him: '_Why did they never find her body?_' He turned to leave, and could have sworn that he felt Hermione at his back lay a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I've gone mental," he said clearing his way through the underbrush without a backward glance.

* * *

The flower wilted minutely at the loss of Ron's company.

Draco allowed those around him to believe that his enthusiasm for a quick wedding had everything to do with his desire to make Astoria his wife without delay. In reality, he had several motives for expediting the union most of which had nothing to do with his feelings for her.

Initially, Draco's mother had been scandalized by his haste to be married, "Darling," she drawled with a simper crossing her handsome features, "I cannot imagine what has inspired such a desire for haste in you. Can you imagine what people will think if you marry Astoria in such a rush? They will whisper that she is pregnant, that she is trying to trap you. Surely you do not want such vile untrue things to be said about your dearest love?"

There was a gleam that Draco could not quite define as he looked into his mother's eyes, it spoke not only of a great devotion to her son, but also that she would destroy any who would ruin his happiness. That Astoria might find her mother-in-law the origin of such nasty rumors, were she not to toe the line and behave properly. It was strangely comforting for him to know that at least one person could be counted on to hold his interests after he moved away from his father. Narcissa was a formidable woman, even Lucius was not foolish enough to defy her will in something she defended so passionately. His father would yield, yes, he would yield to her.

"Certainly not, mother." He smiled in recognition of the look in her eyes. "I will, of course, defer to your experience in determining a seemly amount of time. Though, I would ask that you indulge me in my great desire to decrease my wait by as much as possible. I love her so very much." He watched as tears welled-up in his mother's eyes, greatly satisfied that he would continue to get what he wished.

"As you wish my Darling," Narcissa said echoing his thought. Draco bowed deeply to his mother and set off to gather the papers and money needed to secure a home for his new life.

Having no fear that he might encounter his father, Draco flew through the halls of Malfoy Manor, with the sensation that he could fly without the aid of a broomstick. Servants scurried away from his smiling visage with the fear that it was malice not happiness that had lain such a fierce grin upon the Young Master's face. Not that Draco noticed the help scurrying like rats in the wake of torch-light. He came to a stop outside the doors to the room in which he kept all of his treasures, both monetary and illicit: Hermione's cell.

In the last week Draco had greatly lightened her task load, as an illness prevented her from doing manual labor without vomiting and shaking. He entered the suite to find that none of her tasks for the day had been started, let alone finished. A prickle of anger began deep in his gut, he would not see the mudblood ruin his perfect day. He swept through the anti-chamber and the force of his anger sent his magic before him in a wave of fury, bursting the mahogany double-doors open with a prodigious amount of force.

Hermione lay in bed clinging to the satin sheets in the hope that her force of will alone might stop the incredible wave of nausea that welled-up in her whenever she moved even in the smallest amount. Realizing the futility of the situation she threw herself from the bed and onto the floor, where a strategically placed bucket, already half-full of her earlier heavings, lay ready to accept her latest contribution.

In spite of the dizziness and nausea, she managed to place her mouth over the bucket in time to prevent the meager contents of her stomach from spilling onto the priceless carpet which she curled her toes into as she retched. Suddenly and without warning the doors flew open and Draco rode into the room on a nearly tangible wave of anger. Hermione was temporarily shocked out of her state of sickness and cowered, waiting for the blow to fall.

Draco missed seeing the bucket which rested at her feet, he saw only that she was out of bed and that in that instant that she looked well enough to be working. He flew to her side and grabbed her by the wrist and in so doing, knocked the bucket of vomit and effluvium on its side, splashing the contents across the carpet and up the wall. Without thought he whisked her into the hall and to the nearest staircase, meaning to have her begin cleaning for the day on the first floor of the Manor.

Hermione began to retch uncontrollably and in his disgust he let her wrist slide from his grasp. The sequence of seeing Hermione tumble down the stairs would haunt him for the rest of his years. She could not even manage a scream as she slipped from his grasp and tumbled to meet the seventh stair with the side of her head. Her hair, a brown tangle, fanned out around her as Draco made a desperate grab for her. Her body made dull thuds as it impacted stair after stair. She came to rest on the landing, her limbs coming to rest at awkward angles did much to confirm his suspicion that she might be dead.

Draco paused at the top of the stairs for the tiniest fraction of a second; it felt like an eternity. He might have taken time to marvel at the strange slowness that always seems to accompany accidents while they are happening. He could replay the event in his mind frame by frame, as with a movie. He felt the odd stillness and lack of sound that one experiences during a traumatic event that is then drown out by the sound of one's heart beating in one's ear.

Without a thought to his surroundings he rushed down the staircase and began to reach for her with a pale, trembling hand. He stopped short of touching her, sure that there would be no pulse and that she'd already grown cold. Draco was no longer afraid of the things he had been during his years at Hogwarts, he had seen far greater horrors and known far greater loss than the spoiled child he had been could have ever comprehended. Now he feared only death, and the immediate proximity of a freshly dead corpse was too much for his sense of motility to bear. Especially when he was, not a full minute before, holding onto that soft, rosy, living flesh. Especially when it was he who had let it slip...

There was no time for such speculation, Draco steeled himself and fought down the fear that had him by the throat and reached for Hermione's face. She was warm, one irrational fear allayed a very real fear still as yet unconfirmed. He reached for her chin and slid his index and middle fingers under her jaw in an attempt to find her pulse at the c**arotid** artery. He was about to pull back his hand in disgust at having touched a corpse, but just before he drew away his fingers he felt it...slow and weak.

Draco let out a breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding. Now that he knew that she was alive he allowed himself the luxury of thinking on her death and the freedom it might have granted him. Of course in his fantasy where she was gone he was not haunted by the fits of conscience he would have been in reality. It was much simpler not to think on the negatives of her having survived the accident.

Having learned something of the use of magical emergency treatment during the war, Draco was able to stabilize her condition with surprising speed and little difficulty. He lifted her gently, she weighed nearly nothing and he had to correct his judgment in mid-motion, lest he jostle her and do further damage. "When had she began to lose so much weight? Perhaps it was the stomach virus that she had been recently stricken with, yes. That had to be the cause," Draco rationalized brilliantly. Still, there was something about the situation that left him unsettled.

* * *

He carried the slight form of a witch back to her chamber and laid her in the bed amongst the satin sheets and left a servant, with express orders to find him and to attend her in case she were to wake. He needed to make a trip to the nearest apothecary, to secure for her the herbs and potions she would need in order to expedite her recovery.

She was running through a thick wood at night, pursued by an unknown entity, a creature of malice that was so thick that she could scarce draw breath. Her breath seemed unnaturally loud to her in the otherwise peaceful forest. As Hermione ran quietly she could see the lives of the people she had loved stretched out before her, from birth to death in perfect clarity.

She could see the moment she met Harry and Ron. Dear Ron, she knew right then that she loved him, though she'd never admit it. She saw their friendship grow and his jealousy for what it really was now, love and frustration. Then she saw his life without her.

She saw the world around him move on, while he could not. She saw his nieces and nephews, weddings and birthdays. The joy of the living never seemed to touch him, alone in front of her headstone reading poems to her or just telling her about his day, he was an island of grief.

She paused in her flight and took a moment to attempt to comfort him, even if this was not real she could not abide the feeling of his grief so close to her skin. She imagined a flower, a symbol of hope sprout from his tears and it formed in front of her eyes. She reached out and touched him softly on the shoulder.

Suddenly, her forgotten pursuer was just behind her and the image of Ron faded into the shadows of the dark wood, replaced by a being that seemed to be an amalgam of all of her fears. The image settled on Lucius Malfoy. He leered at her and spoke, "Be careful what you wish for," every syllable dripping with contempt, "You just might get it."

* * *

Her fear was diminished by having a definite target for her rage and she lashed out with her fingers balled into a fist. As the final word escaped Lucius' mouth the image changed to Draco's face and she was unable to pull the punch in time to avoid hitting him. His face was left a red ruin and he disappeared, melting into the darkness. All that remained was the vicious scornful laughter of Lucius. 


End file.
